organic farm livin'

This has been both the worst and the best year ever for me and the husband. Epic fails/Epic wins.

A left his six year chef gig at Texas A&M, due to corporate ass-hattery and Machiavellian back-stabbing bullshit. Who quits a job in this economy? One who’s all done with being bungholed by morally inferior halfwits. So then, the searching began. And we waited, and he interviewed, and we went to Post, Texas to start new jobs and we got fucked in the ass there and so we waited. And unemployment got denied. And we cried. And our chickens kept us fed. And we got by on preps and kindness from neighbors. And we dealt with A’s mom’s cancer. And dealt with not being able to afford gardens. And being too hot. And too cold. And too scared.

Around June, life decided to stop shitting on us. A accepted a position in Klamath Falls, Oregon. We moved across the country with about $500 cash, our important belongings and six animals, anticipating a return to the farm when this fell apart, too. Because after everything we’ve been through, we knew the universe was going to have us make that harrowing move, then blow its nose on our lives, again.

Nope. Because, and then, after all the heartbreak and scared times and fighting and making up and sweating, we kind of hit a financial mother lode, one we didn’t even know was coming for us. And A loves his job here. And I love this region. The mountains RULE, people! Got my own little truck, fourteen hens who are almost ready to lay, a terrible little old farmhouse that’s trying to kill us (seriously, it’s trying to kill us*), We still have the Texas farm. We made a huge payment one day before the foreclosure papers were being filed.

We’ve been able to travel and save. We took a badly-needed trip to Los Angeles because good friends and Black Crowes show. I got to go to Chicago to attend one of my very best friend’s 50th birthday party and see some of my family and reconnect with friends I haven’t seen since high school. We get to go to Kansas City in two days and see my family and friends. We get to go to Houston in February to see A’s family and our friends and go to a Queens of the Stone Age concert (FUCK YEAH!). This spring, we get to have my parents out to experience the wonder that is the Pacific Northwest. We have trips planned for all of 2014. We’ve been able to send occasional gifts to friends and family just because. We’ve been seeing doctors and dentists, catching up on long-delayed, necessary care. I got new glasses and cut off all my hair. We got a treadmill and have been using it. We get to train with our guns out here on the ranch. Tannerite, y’all. It blows up good. We get to explore our area, go hiking and fishing, visit nearby towns and eat good food. Our preps are finally getting there.

Because the universe finally saw us. That through it all, we remained grateful. Oh, we bitched. But in the end, our gratitude always outweighed the terror. We know we’re lucky. And that’s the thing: Even when this year was at its worst, we still knew we were lucky. And we are thankful.

So here’s to you, 2013. I want to punch you in the throat then smooch on your face.

*We’ve been low-level sick since we moved here. Respiratory stuff/sinus stuff/lethargy. We had though it was just due the move, new environment, wildfire smoke, etc., but we’re still sick after six months. So we talked to our friends/landlords and had a “hygienist” out yesterday who tested for mold, dust mites, allergens, carcinogens, mildew…You name it, he tested for it. Plus, BAT GUANO! He actually called our attic the Bat Hilton. Results in three days. *sigh* We might have to move. That would suck. But it’s okay! You know?

My husband lost his mom to cancer a few weeks ago; it happened pretty quickly and we’re still a little shell-shocked.

In July, we moved a household across six states in a UHaul truck with a car-hauler attached. Four cats in the back of the truck. The dogs rode in the pickup on a trailer. Never.never again. Five days.

It has been a HARD (almost) ten months. I didn’t get a garden in because we couldn’t afford it. No farming. My gander flew away right before the goose laid her 18 eggs, and her being abandoned and an inexperienced layer meant a freeze killed all the eggs. We ended up selling all the chickens because we couldn’t move them across country, and adopted out the goose to a good home. That was hard. I killed a copperhead with a shovel, on a day where my husband had been gone at the new job for three weeks already, the ignition shot craps in the truck, and it was 106 degrees. That was a special day. We struggled with money to the point where my awesome neighbor actually showed up with groceries because he was so worried about us. Unannounced, unasked for or even hinted at by us, he just showed up. It still makes me tear up with humbleness and gratitude. We found out A’s mom had cancer, and it was so advanced that the future looked grim. That proved true.

We kept pretty quiet about it all, which is mostly why I haven’t been blogging. Waking up worried four months in a row in a hot house with two depressed adults and a bunch of heat-struggling animals isn’t something to share.

But! When A landed this gig, we also scored the most awesome house ever, and the ability to still own the farmhouse. He loves his job. We’re living on an amazing 52,000 acre ranch with landlords who have turned into VERY good friends. We’re laying in stores for the winter, are making plans for the future, and could.not.be.happier. The view from our front door is breathtaking. We are 45 minutes from Crater Lake. I got what I call my Freedom Mobile.

My depression about having no farm this spring turned into a blessing. The drought would have killed it and me. My worries about the future have turned around so much that I am thoroughly excited about our futures. The husband is healthy and happy, as are my friends and family. We are sad that A’s mom is lost, but believe that she is at peace.

We live in what we call Little House in the Big Piney. We meet interesting people every day. I’ve got 15 pullets in the garage, waiting to be moved into a coop that I’m constructing this week. The dogs are being trained on a wireless electric fence, because if they keep chasing the cattle, they’ll be shot (hey, that’s how it rolls on a working cattle ranch). We are preparing for winter, and are completely stoked about having a fireplace in the living room.

We are endeavoring to be better children/friends/partners to our loved ones. We’re excited about our one/three/five years plans. And know now, thoroughly, that planning only takes you so far.

A year has passed since we got the farm. One whole year. We celebrated by hosting the chef’s parents for Thanksgiving, and eating off some 1930’s English china* we found at our local antique store, while watching the Texans almost lose to the Detroit Lions.

(*Total freaking score, btw. Alfred Meakin service for six, with six serving pieces for $60.)

One year. I’ve dealt with deaths, large and small. I’ve made some important friendships, and lost a few relationships I thought were important. I’ve learned that I’m tougher than I thought, and to take better care of myself by standing up for myself. I’ve realized that it’s a lot better for me to drop poisonous people than to put up with their bullshit and let it leak onto me.

I’ve learned a LOT about organic gardening and sustainability this year, just by doing. I’ve learned that books are only a pathway to the reality out here, and I’m thankful for our inventiveness and outside-the-box thinking. I’ve learned to can, and how to do household, yard, and pool maintenance. I’ve gotten to be a much better shot.

I’ve learned to not dream so big and to manage my expectations, for myself, my husband, this farm, my friends, my family. For every minus here, there seem to be pluses.

My plans for the big, bad-ass garden were too ambitious, and I could not keep up. My dreams of a huge flock of chickens didn’t work out, because they just kept dying this summer. One of my geese literally flew away and never came back. But two have stayed, a mated pair that will give us eggs and babies this spring. We got four more pullets, and we’ll have six layers by spring.

Despite all the set-backs our first spring and summer, we managed to produce so much veg that we have an over-filled freezer and about 40 jars of product. The greenhouse didn’t happen because the winds blew the covering off and mangled the frame, but we’ll try it again in the spring. We’re doing two beefsteak tomato plants in our indoor greenhouse, so winter tomatoes!!

The pool never seemed to get quite right until the very end of the season, when we finally figured out the necessary chemical brew. We still haven’t had the money to buy a lawn mower, but it’s kind of okay, because we learned that our neighbor is a super-nice guy and brings his tractor over to drag the grass and keep it looking tight. We had two trees felled that didn’t make it through last year’s drought. Pine tree for the burn pile, and pecan tree for the smoker. (Oh yeah, we got a smoker!) I’ve learned to deal with scorpions and coyotes, and last evening while putting up the chickens for the night, a rattlesnake struck my boot. I’ve learned that I can run pretty fucking fast.

We’re installing raised beds in 2013, and that will help with the manageability for me. The beds will be closer to the house, closer to a water source, and we’ll be installing irrigation. I won’t have to deal with constant weeding, and the Bermuda grass can have its way with the big garden area, where we’re getting many ducks and geese to eat it.

We adopted a puppy (Mongo) and found a Siamese kitten (Mr. Peabody). I went through my first-ever dog-in-heat experience (she’s since been fixed). Doggy diapers = nobody wins. Total count: five male cats, two dogs. We’re stopping there.

This is my birthday week, and we’ll be going next weekend to cut down our Christmas tree and put it up in the great room. It looks magical when it’s all lit up, set against the backdrop of this 1930 Texas farmhouse. We’ve fixed up the house so it’s comfortable and nice for us and anyone who visits, and 2013 will see some painting and power-washing, to get it even nicer.

We got married here, and it was a magical day. I can’t imagine doing this with anybody else in the world. We’ve been able to share this place with friends and family, and that’s pretty freaking sweet. A few parties, a pig buried and eaten, our first deep-fried turkey (kick-ass, btw), music, dancing, laughter, tears.

After my last post about the horrifying rate of chicken attrition (Note to self, new band name: Chicken Attrition), we lost two more, bringing our total number of hens down to two. (One had her neck broken by the geese; one died of general failure to thrive…Chickens now have their own separate sleeping area, because geese are assholes and their time is limited*.) We’re getting more hens in a couple of days. Makes me happy!!! My little Rhodie and her buddy CM are doing their job, but two eggs a day just ain’t cuttin’ it.

Up yours, Bitch Grass.

Future home of raised beds

Garden transition from summer to fall has been slightly painful. See all that grass? That’s my garden, overtaken by Bermuda grass, or as we call it, Bitch grass. It started to seriously make a move about two months ago, I didn’t get on it fast enough and now I have watermelons, winter squash, bush beans, and carrots all competing for life. I have weeded around them, but I just don’t care anymore because they’re thriving anyway AND! Transitions. We’re moving to a raised bed system**, and giving that yard over to ducks.

Seriously. *Ducks in the big garden area, geese in the back two acres, because DUNH DUNH DUNNNNH…We’re starting an ethical foie gras business. I’m not jinxing it by giving it a name yet (I have several AWESOME candidates in a spreadsheet, awaiting availability checks and a Facebook popularity poll) or describing all of our proposed production methods. But I will say that we’d be the only ones doing it in this country (based on a model by this badass, Eduardo Sousa of La Pateria de Sousa), we’ll have around 100 birds, and the Texas A&M Poultry Sciences Department has expressed an interest in helping us develop the concept. So booyah! Come on, grant money!! (Maybe. Hopefully.) No gavage, no cruelty. Just a bunch of chattering, happy buttheads eating whatever they want for 18 weeks, then eating as much corn and yellow lupine that their little faces can gorge on for four weeks in the fall. Then, a truck ride to their final reward and the Brazos Valley and Houston suddenly become a lot more delicious!

Come spring, this is going to be one noisy joint. This winter: planning, cross fencing, building of shelters, repair of existing outbuildings, installation of Nite Guards, and dreaming of creamy foie gras on toast and duck confit next fall.

Diaper of Shame

In other news, Ursa the puppy has attained her majority. So to speak. Two weeks shy of her big operation, she jumped the shark. Again, so to speak. Anyway, lots of cleaning, lots of Doggy Depends, lots of worrying about coyotes trying to break through our windows to get at the lovely Miss Ursa. (Not really, but that’s where my brain goes when I hear them in the surrounding fields.) We have three weeks to wait until she gets to see the vet again. Yay. *sigh*

Scorpions are back with a vengeance. We’re hitting the perimeter with spray and a borax/DE mixture because it’s gotten so bad that the husband literally hallucinated one in our bed last night. He screamed, “Holy shit! Look at that!” and I was looking and looking and said, “I don’t see anything!” and he started flipping the blanket around and there was nothing there. Well played, scorpions.

**Raised beds, YES PLEASE! I just can’t keep on top of the weeding and mulching required to beat back Texas Bermuda grass. We had originally chosen that

Mulberry thinks it’s spring. What up, nature?

yard because it has 7′ deer fencing and we wanted the protection. Lessons learned? NO DEER IN THIS PART OF THE WORLD. The farmers shoot them, they got the memo…Whatever. They’re not here. I’ve seen two in a year. Also, Bitch grass will always win. Always.

So, eight 4×8′ cedar raised bed boxes will be built this winter, lasagna layering installed in each, and come spring? Let’s just say I’m really excited about not weeding, having the gardens closer to the house and the water supply, and the boom that is going to be our production. We’ll also have a large in-ground bed for the spreaders (melons, winter squash, etc.), but I at least can handle weeding one 4×12′ bed.

Jesus Christ, I just realized: That’s a busy fucking winter. What have I done?

We’ve had a rough few days at El Rancho Loco. First, on Saturday morning early (like 5:00 a.m.), we both woke up to start the day. Nice start to our weekend, yay! I reached to the floor, in the dark, for my kick-ass Dickie’s camo shorts and SHABBAP, got hit by a scorpion. I screamed on the top of my lungs, “Motherfuckingshitballsfuckingscorpion *breathe* AAAAAHHHHHFUCKYOU!!!!” The only scorpion in the entire house was sitting right where my thumb reached. We know because we spent the next 15 minutes looking around the carpet with a blacklight. What are the fucking odds? Why my bedroom? There’s no water there, there is only certain death. I think my friends and family are safe from scorpions though, because every one of those pieces of shit will come for me while my loved ones run away.

When Lovelace was the biggest lady in the yard.

So I iced my thumb and put NeoSporin with lidocaine on it and went out to let out the chickens/geese. I noticed my favorite (she’s my favorite now, despite this post where I called her Bitchface #2) is looking a little funky. She usually stands in front of the geese right at the door, waiting to be let out (she’s the alpha). That morning, she was on the ground, and when she got up, she was limping. Then I noticed that she had a little eye funk and was wheezing a little. So I did some research in my books and online, and we got some VetRX to help with possible respiratory infection and cider vinegar to add to the water, to help with her overall malaise and possible parasites. I spent Saturday and Sunday cleaning her butt and rubbing her with medicine and watering her. I put her in the jumbo cat carrier to isolate her. She spent the next two days sliding downhill.

Yesterday, I called a chicken pro who told me it might be Marek’s, might be CRD and to get Tylan or LS-50 to inject her with. I spent all day yesterday feeding her little sips of water with apple cider vinegar, and rubbing her head and talking to her. She fell asleep in my arms a few times. We’re a one-car family, so I waited till the chef got home to take me to Tractor Supply. I watched a couple of videos to see how to inject her. I went and checked on her before we went. We got home, I loaded up the syringe, took it out to the coop and she had died. Ants were already covering her face. I started bawling and brushing ants off her face while Allan went and got a garbage bag.

I know it’s stupid and it’s not really my fault, but I feel like a failure. I know it’s stupid to have gotten so attached after I said I wouldn’t, but I did anyway. I know it’s stupid to take this personally, but I am.

We have three geese left, plus one sex-link, a Rhode Island Red, and two Cuckoo Marans, only one of whom is laying because the other one has a failure-to-thrive syndrome where she has not properly developed her comb or wattle, and doesn’t have a proper vent size for laying. So at least we still have three layers.

More proof that I suck.

We talked to some friends and we’re going to keep doing it, even though I feel like the worst Mom ever. (Ursa got bit by what we’re afraid might be a brown recluse or a black widow spider. We have to keep an eye on it for necrosis. Researching how to treat it at home in the meantime. This picture looks like she’s in pain or is lethargic. This is actually her relaxing after tearing around the yard after toads, rabbits, grasshoppers, the wind, like she does every day, rain or shine.)

We’re going to get more chickens and a rooster, so I can start brooding chicks. We decided that the rate of attrition in a free-range Texas chicken yard is always going to be a little high, so let’s double-down on this effort.

I’m going to spend today and maybe part of tomorrow feeling like I’ve let the team down, then snap out of it and start looking at new hens.

UPDATE: Ursa has histiocytosis, a common benign growth on her nose that is apparently kind of like a wart that will go away on its own. So, Huzzah! to both our vet, who didn’t charge anything, and to life, for not handing us another shit bouquet.

Regarding your piece, “The Organic Fable,” of September 6, 2012, you were so busy patting yourself on the back for being a “trend”-bucker that you forgot to do any research. Your cynical statement that, “… the organic ideology is an elitist, pseudoscientific indulgence shot through with hype” speaks volumes about the path used to come to the self-serving, dubious conclusions you reach in this hit piece. Namely a path which was not sullied by science or peer-reviewed studies which very clearly demonstrate the hazards of GMOs and the chemicals that love them.

You relied upon the Times’ rehash of a Stanford Systemic Review published in the Annals of Internal Medicine. Perhaps you thought, “Hey, my employer published it…It must be close enough to true for me.” Little heads-up; it’s not.

“… the study completely fails to account for key factors such as the presence of GMOs, artificial sweeteners like aspartame and sucralose, mercury (such as that admittedly contained in high-fructose corn syrup), BPA, and much more. It also does not even properly address the two topics it seeks to address concerning the presence [sic] antibiotics and chemical residue. The researchers fail first of all to reveal the difference between the organic food and conventional food pesticides, and then go on to state that organic food actually does have lower pesticide levels.”

A study performed by Irina Ermakova with the Russian National Academy of Sciences reported that more than half the babies from mother rats fed GM soy died within three weeks, while the death rate in the non-GM soy group was only 10 percent. Additionally, the babies in the GM group were smaller, and, worst of all, could not reproduce. In a telling coincidence, after Ermakova’s feeding trials were completed, her laboratory started feeding all the rats in the facility a commercial rat chow using GM soy. Within two months, the infant mortality facility-wide reached 55 percent.

-A whole mess of peer-reviewed links and studies about the grand genocidal failure that is glyphosate (the key ingredient in Roundup, which is sucked up by your GMO corn, soybeans, cotton, etcetera and then ingested by you. Lucky you!)

To speak to your assertion that (I’m paraphrasing) we’re “affluent narcissists,” know this: Organic farmers like me gladly sell our products to restaurants and grocery stores. We have to make a living, too. The slightly higher prices offset the admittedly higher labor hours needed to not poison ourselves, our customers, and the planet. Spraying Roundup is easy. Mulching and hoeing in the hot Texas sun on this little patch of organic acreage is way freaking harder. But we find it worth the extra work to not develop tumors, disease, genetic defects, or the sense that we’re above it all, out here in the actual dirt…You know, where food comes from.

Here’s something you probably didn’t know either (maybe because to know would have required you read or do research, or even listen to someone who isn’t just hanging out with you at expensive restaurants where you all laugh about the “little people” and how we’re better off eating chemicals and mutated genetic calories):

There’s an important piece of legislation on the table in California called Proposition 37. It’s an initiative that would mandate the labeling of GMOs in food. Information that we “pampered parts of the planet” want, I guess because we’re elitists. If BigFarm, BigAgra, and the chemical consortiums are so proud of their products, it follows that they should slather their names on the grocery store packaging. Yes, please!

Perhaps you can understand my frustration now. Maybe you can comprehend now how maddening it is to back an underdog like the “Just Label It” initiative, who has a relatively tiny budget to pit against $40 million dollars from Big Agra. Know where they could have put that money, while they’re crying, “It would just be too expensive to label!” That’s right: Labeling.

A hit piece like yours based on nothing but your personal bias against something a whole bunch of us are well-educated about and fighting for just makes you look and sound stupid. Please either shut up or wake up.

You’re cordially invited to come down to Texas and meet a real farmer, who can teach you a thing or two thousand about what GMO really means. To you, me, and the planet.

I don’t know what happened to my writing muse but she needs a spanking, and not the fun kind. I think part of it is that I’ve been tits-deep in writing TWO business plans for some projects we’re hoping to get off the ground, and that kind of work is a muse-killer. She started crying about two days into it and just sort of limped off into a closet in my brain that has snacks (fudge Pop-Tarts), and Xanax. I’ll admit it here, too: I got sucked into DVR’d Olympic games for about two weeks (p.s.: Best way EVER to watch the games. Screw you volleyball, marathons, and speed walking. SPEED WALKING??).

Das Ladies.

Farm news: The chickens started laying!! I’ve waited for what seems like forever to have more than my faithful little Golden-laced Wyandotte put out her one egg a day, and BLAMMO. Went out there a few days ago to find four new eggs in one of the boxes. Sad news, however, as we lost one of the sex-links…I’d been coaxing her along to help heal an injured leg by isolating her to the smaller “chick” area of the coop, then came in to find she’d injured a wing overnight. That night, I put her in a huge cat carrier with food and water, and when I came in in the morning, I found she’d either broken her own neck or suffocated somehow. Anyway, I’ve got one lady with a cut on her leg that’s healing up nicely, and a goose that scared the crap out of me by pretending to have a broken leg for a day. Thank you, Trase of Serenity Acres Now for talking me off the ledge on that one!!

We got winter squash, cantaloupes, pumpkins, beans, corn, and carrots installed for the fall. Our peppers are still going monkey-shit from spring planting, so good news there. The tomatoes are all done, which means next year, all the heirlooms are going in the greenhouse. They just can’t take Texas.

We’ve been enjoying the pool, finally, after spending most of the spring and the early part of summer just trying to figure out how to stay on top of the algae situation. Pools are a gigantic pain in the ass, we’ve learned, but also TOTALLY WORTH IT when you’re floating around in a $2 inner-tube, listening to way loud classic rock on the shop radio, baking in the sun, and naming the clouds things like Nelson Rockefeller On a Unicycle.

Those eggs are not for you, Mr. Peabody.

Here is a gratuitous shot of our newest animal addition, Mr. Peabody. He found us outside our local grocery store, by loudly proclaiming his love from behind a row of carts. He has incredibly blue eyes, and is just now finding his Siamese voice, God help us all. The other cats are still pissed, but screw them. Mr. Peabody rules.

Therapy weeding! Towards my goal of kicking depression in the nads, I’ve spent the past two and a half days out in the gardens TCB. I feel way better.

Today is a half day, because (tip: don’t get old) I’m old. I was all gung-ho the past two days, saying “Fuck you” to the heat, work periods longer than break periods, drinking lots of water, taking my supplements, working seven hour shifts. Today, I’m ass-hammered. I got out to the watermelon patch all set to finish and yeeahhhh, there’s my back, telling me I’m 46, still 30 lbs. overweight (lost some on Atkins already), take an Aleve for your back and go back inside, you dork. So I weeded some, messed with the birds, and came back inside.

Here’s what I’ve learned from my recent gardening experiences:

Taking non-specific depression rage out on caterpillars feels nice. Almost as nice as the *pop* they make when I punch them right in the dirt, bright green ooze squishing out of both ends. I used to be squeamish about killing them. Now, I dig it. Eat my cabbages HOW, no face?

I’ve developed a peripheral vision superpower because of my hyper-vigilance for spiders. After the black widow scare and given the number of wolf and brown recluse spiders I’ve seen and killed over the past few months, I’m like a side-seeing ninja. I can’t think of all the applications, but I’m sure there are a million. Call me for rates.

Notwithstanding the above superpower, I did have a wolf spider jump on my tits while I was weeding by the pool. It sent me into a screaming fit that could probably be heard in town. Way after the spider had been sent sailing far away by my spastic hand movements, I was still screaming.

My formerly sweet geese are now kind of jerks. I’ve been spending a lot of time in the big garden lately, adjacent to the poultry yard, and not only do they challenge me in the mornings when I come let them out*, but they bully the chickens a little. Not enough to separate them, but enough for me to understand that my babies have grown up into delinquent jerks, and I’m kind of rethinking my position on having them as foie gras instead of long-time pets.

People who read my craigslist ad (invisible subtitle: Check Out My Melons!) are probably too stupid to deserve my melons anyway. That said, what the fuck am I going to do with all these melons?

One of the sex-link chickens (not quite ready for laying pullet) has a bum leg. It’s not bumblefoot and she’s not bleeding, so I’m hoping it’s just a sprain. I’m fortunate in that this is my first animal injury, and it’s a pretty easy one. Diagnosis: bum leg. Treatment: keep away from jerks, and give extra supplements. She seems to be hopping around okay, and two of the other hens are (shockingly) keeping an eye on her and making sure she gets food and water.

*Every morning between 6:15 and 6:30 I go and let the birds out of the coop. Every morning for the past few weeks, the geese kind of hang back and talk to me. *Bapbapbapbap* So I talk back, of course. Then they started flapping their wings, a few days later. Kind of experimental, one, then the other, then the third goose, flapping then settling. Then a few days later, it progressed to big flaps, and talking REALLY LOUDLY to me.

“I will be delicious!”

Then, and this was the last straw, they started spreading their wings, yelling at me, and RUSHING me. Ohhhh, that will not stand. So the first time they did it, I raised my arms like wings and said, “Oh, FUCK no,” and advanced on them and they backed down.

Then, they started the funniest thing ever and I hope I can catch it on video. I start to walk out of the yard, and I hear *flapflapflap* *shuffleshuffle* and turn around really quick, and they drop their wings, and resume scrounging in the grass. “What? Just eating some bugs. What up, mama lady? Doodly do.” Then I turn around to leave and it happens again. At least twice before I get out of the yard. Seriously cracks me up.

A week ago I was heaving tomatoes at their heads in consternation. Now it’s cracking me up. Baby steps.

I don’t normally write in the evenings; it’s just not my brain’s creative time. I’m usually tapped, mentally, by 5:00 or 6:00 p.m. Anyway, today is different because today was pretty freaking great. And nothing really happened.

Not mine, but close enough. So sad…

The heat has been bumming me out for a few reasons, mostly because it was hastening what I thought was the demise of all the garden vegetable plants. They’ve looked miserable and stopped producing. I tried watering consistently (even doubled the schedule for about a month), Neem oil/baking soda/vinegar for potential disease and insects, compost side-dressing for nutrients. Then, I tore out a few dead tomatoes and kind of gave up on the rest of the gardens. Brown, sad, non-producing, cat-faced tomatoes, no fertility. I thought it was blight, but nope. It’s just been so fucking hot and dry that they were giving up. The squash was dying; the green beans gave up weeks ago. Pepper plants looking droopy and sad, with no fruit or flowers. The only thing thriving is the watermelons. Nothing can stop them. They’re aliens.

Well, a few good rains and cloudy days last week changed everything. Real rain is simply unbeatable. The plants perked up and more miraculously, started coming back. The tomatoes and peppers have new blooms on them, they’ve set well, and we’ll be getting new tomatoes in a month. The squash (“”Prolific”…I can’t recommend this squash enough) has gone crazy again, after slowing down for a few weeks.

What happened today is I finally had enough of neglecting the gardens we worked so hard to establish, so I got to work outside. I started weeding at 7:00 a.m. I worked on and off all over our gardens and yard for almost six hours, with frequent breaks. I deadheaded flowers, Neemed everything, composted, hoed the beds, tore out big grass around the pool by hand, blew out the pool filter system, battled wolf spiders, put away tools that had been left out, cut down the spent sunflowers to harvest the seeds tomorrow, found the laying hen’s new hidden nest, stood down the geese when they charged me this morning.

It was a normal day on the farm. One I’ve not experienced in months, and haven’t even really wanted to, because the second effect of the heat for me is that it kind of saps my will to live. I get depressed, and that’s a fact. Lost interest in normal activities, fits of extreme fatigue, loss of appetite, erratic sleep, intermittent bouts of sadness, and even inappropriate anger. Money worries, sick and dying family, frustration over a couple of stalled projects…

This summer has been hard, but for unexpected reasons. I anticipated the bugs and heat and physical exertion to get the better of me, sooner rather than later. What has actually happened is my heart gave out, figuratively speaking. Texas summer tried to suck away my will and spirit. So I’m going to keep an eye on this tendency towards lethargy when faced with Texas douchebaggery. It’s a stupid cycle, and nobody I know or love deserves to be around it, least of all me.

I’d like to share our heartfelt sadness for the lives lost and the people touched by the tragedy in Aurora, Colorado. I will honor the memory of those lost by never mentioning that fucktarded madman’s name aloud or in print. That useless piece of shit deserves to be banished from humanity, by whatever means necessary.

We don’t dial 911.

That said, I’m going to share that here on the farm, we are gun friendly. I won’t share what we own or what we wish we had (oh, chef has a looong list). Guns for us out in the rural Texas countryside mean safety from predators, both human and non-human. They mean food if the system breaks down. They mean a sense of security for me, when I’m home alone during the day while the chef’s at work. Security for myself and security for our animals and belongings. In America, (and especially in Texas) they mean I might not even need a gun to be safe from human predators, because the chances of you breaking into a house in rural Texas and finding an unarmed home-owner are probably 100 to 1. Go ahead, asshole, try to rape me or steal my TV.

Here in the United States, the right to own guns is VERY polarizing. One could spend days arguing for or against. It’s as divisive as the arguments regarding capital punishment.

To me, it is another instance in which one crazy fuckhole can ruin everything for everybody. That this tragedy has turned into another excuse for the powers that be to try to take away American citizens’ Constitutional rights to own guns angers me. Hugely. Like a sun-sized fireball of anger.

What I know is that folks who take the CHL classes, take the certification exam, get their guns and their license to carry concealed are not crazy fuckers intent on harming anyone. They’re generally gun nerds who pour over websites drooling over stock finishes and caliber sizes. Even the gun nerds who DON’T have a CHL are generally just safety- and security-conscious and watch a lot of Military Channel. They like Chuck Norris movies, chicks with big tits, and shooting at targets with Osama Bin Laden’s face on them. BIG FUCKING DEAL.

In many parts of this country, gun ownership is generational. I grew up shooting handguns and shotguns with my Dad and my brothers. We didn’t hunt; my Dad just had guns. Big fucking deal.

Gun nerds have ranges, both outdoor and indoor, that they frequent to get hours and hours of practice in towards the goal of being expert marksmen/women. If they live in the country, they might even have an amateur range in their own backyard (I hear gunshots all the time out here in the country, btw. Too many to be considered just driving away a coyote…These dudes are practicing with their semi-autos). They are sometimes NRA members. They probably vote for whomever is going to support the Constitution (which is neither current candidate, in my opinion). They congregate with other gun nerds either online or in person and talk about wind drift and twist and Picatinny rails. Or if they’re like me (not a gun nerd), they occasionally practice at home, sometimes buy ammo at WalMart, and rarely even think about guns, even though they’re in the house. Safeties are on, plenty of ammo, we sleep better at night. Period. Personal choice. Totally legal.

Know who DOESN’T get training or legally license their weapons? That’s right: criminals.

What I DO KNOW is that an asshole fired those weapons. A misanthropic, stinky piece of dogshit killed those innocent people. Society didn’t do it. Satan didn’t do it. Inadequate security didn’t do it. Batman didn’t do it. A lone fuckwit did it.

That freaking hole took us 2-1/2 hours to dig (heavy clay…SO MUCH FUN. *sigh*).

The pig bury was a success (and thank God, because that would have been a $150 mistake we can’t afford right now)! See, we didn’t actually know what we were doing. I’ve only ever attended other peoples’ pig buries (in Hawaii), and the chef has only ever read about it/seen videos.

Opera gloves and a hula skirt. It’s a party, y’all.

So we said, “Fuck it, let’s do it anyway cuz it’s awesome,” and dug a hole, got the completely wrong kind of rocks, a 35 lb. pig, and blisters on our hands.

We started digging the hole at 6:30 a.m. on Friday. Then at 2:00 p.m., Allan started burning pecan wood in the hole. Then he kept burning wood. For six more hours. Then he poured the lava rocks over and DOUSED THE COALS accidentally. Then he burned more wood for two hours. At 10:00 p.m., we put in the banana leaf-/burlap-/chicken wire-wrapped piggy in the ground, covered it with dirt, a tarp, more dirt, and prayers that we weren’t going to disappoint our friends and family with pig that had to be finished in the oven.

BUT HUZZAH, when we pulled that bad boy out at 2:30 p.m. on Saturday, mothahfuckah turned out porkalicious and nobody got trichinosis! (I tamed down the photo carnage for the faint of heart with my mad Paint skills. You’re welcome.)

We swam, we sweated, we ate, we blew stuff up. It was 98 degrees until we were finally (three months of waiting!!!) blessed with some rain. Friends and family brought booze and food and chairs and it was alllll good.

So, where am I not right now? On a scheduled flight to Chicago. One flight got cancelled today by Southwest Airlines, and it was mine. No other flights today than one that gets in at 9:45 p.m., and no flights available tomorrow that don’t land smack-dab in the middle of the funeral (or after, which is pointless). So thanks a pant-load, Southwest. My heart is broken. But one cousin (my cousins are AWESOME, btw) said, “Uncle Don knows you tried” and another said, “You must have to stay home for some reason or this would not have happened.” So, maybe it’s okay.

I think I’m going to do some art today. I’ve been wanting to do a series of rough pen & ink drawings of farm stuff, like chickens, trees, outbuildings, all from our farm. Way less intensive than the work I normally do, which is pointillism (one of my pieces, below).

Monet’s Lilies

Maybe the Universe is telling me to get out of my own head and make something this weekend. I just found out someone I care about has cancer. I’m going to send good energy her way, do something creative, and maybe can some more tomatoes. Maybe vacuum. Play with the kitten. Talk to the family by phone. Hug my husband when he gets home. Nesting and creativity seem to be the order of the day.

I made breakfast this morning (3 small pullet eggs, scrambled; flour tortilla; 2 Roma tomatoes) and realized that two of the three things on my plate were made on this farm, with help from me and my husband. That made me feel good.

And then I cried for my own selfish reasons, because I can’t see my family this weekend.

This super-informative piece on Mother Earth News says (page 3), “…remember that it’s unwise to do hard outdoor work when both the temperature and the humidity are high. When the two numbers added together equal more than 160, stay indoors during the middle of the day.”

I would edit that to add, “If you live in south central Texas, however, it is technically ALWAYS the middle of the day. Plan on building robots to do your gardening, because those two numbers will equal greater than 160 for the next four months.”

I just got in from an hour’s-worth of harvesting tomatoes, feeding and watering the chickens and geese, and watering the gardens. After standing in front of the window A/C, I’m at least not dripping sweat from every pore; only my hair is still soaked. The cats lasted about 10 minutes out there, and the dog looks at me like I’m slow in the head whenever I open the door to let her out.

The plants are all suffering. This year’s averages are already 10 degrees above normal and everything is browning. I water in the mornings and we’ll be constructing some shade dealies next week (when the chef’s on vacation…YAY!) to help at least the tomatoes. We’ll also be filling the indoor greenhouse with starts to go in next month. The only thing really thriving outside right now is a super-tall volunteer sunflower in the potager. (Not my garden; it’s too freaking hot and I’m too cooked to go out with a camera right now. Thanks, random blogger, Cheryl.)

While the husband’s home, we have a ton of outdoor chores to attend to for our party July 7th*. It’s going to be a blast! However, pool needs fixing up, gardens need cleaning, pit needs digging, lighting needs putting up, grass needs mowing, food and supplies need getting boughted. (Okay, that last one got away from me.)

Here’s an actual photo from our garden from Tuesday, June 26, 2012, or as I like to call it, “Family Shit Day.” Go ahead, click on the photo. It’s a black widow and her boyfriend, right under one of the tomato plants. I pulled back a big clump of stems to get at some ripe tomatoes underneath and THERE IT WAS. Oh, I ain’t proud to say I Sevin’d the shit out of her, but, I SEVIN’D THE SHIT OUT OF HER. Then that wasn’t enough, so I scootched her and her boyfriend out and smashed them under my rubber boot toe into the dirt until they were a whole mess of splat and legs.

Also on the “getting boughted” list for the party: Outdoor and indoor foggers, tiki torches, personal bodyguards, spider mace**.

*Send me an email if you’re local and come on out! (You’ll be required to answer a series of questions allowing me to judge whether or not you are a dangerous ax murderer, Obama supporter, or Romney supporter.)

**Is there such a thing? Because if there isn’t, I’m going to invent it and be a gajillionaire.

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Friday a.m: Off to Chicago to attend a service for my uncle, and see my large family for the first time in a while. Way too long a while for some of them. Funeral Saturday. I’m looking forward to a lot of laughing and hugs and some cathartic tears. I know Uncle Don would be pissed if we didn’t laugh as much as we can at this thing.

This isn’t about farming or gardening. It’s not about being angry or smart-assed. It’s about saying good-bye to one of my heroes, my Uncle Donny. He passed last night unexpectedly, after a few hard years of health trouble.

I remember you from when I was a little girl in Florida. You came down to our house to clear trees, because you were a “Tree Surgeon.” I thought that meant you were a) a real doctor, and b) why would a real doctor be cutting down trees instead of healing them? You were like a spider monkey, climbing the trees with your spiked shoes and big ropes, brandishing a chain saw like you were a pine tree pirate. You had the first tattoo I ever saw. I thought you were the coolest person ever.

I remember visiting your little white farmhouse in Illinois. We Downer kids thought you were rich because you had a two-story house. We were also pretty sure you were from another country because your Chicago accent was so strong. I remember you had an earthworm farm in the basement, and it was exciting and scary as hell to go down there and smell those worms and creep along in the near-dark.

I remember you taking me to your neighbor’s house who had horses, because you knew I was obsessed and you wanted me to learn to ride, and shut up about it already. I didn’t want to walk home through the woods by myself, and I remember you telling me to “Toughen up and just do it,” and so I did.

I remember you and my other uncles getting shit-faced drunk at Uncle Chuck’s, and throwing bean bags and then punches. Then all of you laughing like idiots until all us cousins fell asleep when it got dark.

I remember you and the other Uncles and Grandma yelling at each other and then hugging. All cousins (and kids) were convinced you all were crazy.

I remember you and Uncle Chuck teaching me to throw elbows in a fight, “Because you got a big mouth and girl fists. You’d get your ass beat.” (And I never told you how many times that trick came in handy.)

I remember when my parents got divorced and you drove down to Florida with Uncle Chuck to bring me, Mom, and my brothers up to Chicago to live. You came in a U-Haul truck, and bitched and bitched about the heat and all the stuff we had. Then you drove us to our new home and helped us get settled in our new lives.

I remember opening day White Sox games and how OFFENDED you always were that I am a Cubbies fan. I remember you taking us to the press box at the old Blackhawks Stadium, and how regular seats at a Blackhawks game always sucked because they weren’t above center ice…

I remember what seemed like 40 Gabouer kid weddings, and you and Aunt Geri being dressed to the nines…

I remember you yelling, “Stell-Adele!” every time you saw my mom, and would hurry up to give us all hugs.

I remember the first time I saw your lake house in Indiana and how cool I thought you and Aunt Geri were, and that you’d finally “made it.”

I remember you asking me to ghost-write your autobiography, and how honored I was that you would ask me, knowing that I love to write. I remember how embarrassed you were over some of the stories, thinking I’d be offended, and then realizing that that’s pretty freaking hard to do with me.

I remember you and Uncle Chuck coming to our little lake house in Polo a few years ago, and how you two were like little kids about wanting cookies after dinner, and leaving me money on the toilet tank because never in the history of ever had two people filled up a septic tank so fast. I remember you being so proud of the fact that you used the ladies room at our local gas station, because, “AY! When you gotta go, you gotta go!”

I remember (three years ago) you taking me and my brother out on your boat at Lake Shafer, and me sitting all the way up front and you banging the waves so I’d fly around and scream and laugh until tears were streaming from my eyes. And when I screamed, “AGAIN! AGAIN!” like a two year-old, you obliged.

I remember your “Come to Jesus” meetings on the deck at Lake Shafer, when all they really were was a venue for telling more stories.

I remember talking to you for the first time in years when you were diagnosed with cancer, and we never really stopped the calls every month or two. I remember you taking time in the recent years to reach out to me through phone calls, whether to congratulate me on my engagement and wedding, or to yell at me for saying “fuck” so much on Facebook.

I remember you never stopped talking. From the early morning till you went to sleep, you always had a story. We could tell you over and over again that we’d heard it before, but that didn’t stop you. You’d plow right through, undaunted by our groans or rolling eyes.

ORTHO BUG B GON MAX (Manufacturer, Scotts. Active ingredient, Bifenthrin [pyrethrin]): I sprayed this bullshit chemical cocktail over my entire yard. It’s supposed to work to kill grasshoppers a) on contact and b) later. How well does this work?

NOT AT ALL.

Eat a gigantic bag of dicks, Scotts. Yes, you were a cheap, well-marketed seeming solution to my problem. You are also made of balls. Big, hairy, useless balls. I spent an entire morning spreading your poisonous merde over grasshoppers and crickets and lawn and it turns out? YOU’RE MADE OF USELESSNESS AND DESPAIR. Thanks again, chemistry schmucks and marketing (“Bug B Gon”? Really?) lie-sacks of turd.

Price: $14.99 each x 2 (because I’m stupid) = $30.00

Rating: I hope you get genital warts

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Ashtray on a motorcycle.

SEVIN BUG KILLER (Manufacturer, Bayer. Active ingredient, Carbaryl): Know what’s good about this product? Only its no-nonsense name. Know what it does to grasshoppers? Makes them genetically susceptible to the ability to LAUGH IN MY FACE. Nice work, Bayer. It’s not bad enough that I broke my No-Bayer-Products rule because you fuckers kill bees, but I also paid you money to buy a poison that DOES NOT WORK? Well played, assholes. You win this round.

Also, nice white crud left all over everything. That’s swell.

Price: $25.00 (1 gallon)

Rating: I hope mutant spiders lay eggs in your face

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Tits on a bull.

FRONTLINE (Manufacturer, Merial. Active Ingredient, Fipronil (pyrethrin): Here’s how well your vaunted products work on my cats and dog: EXACTLY ZERO TIMES INFINITY. I spent almost $100 to get the dog and cats flea-free, unable to dose them with anything ELSE THAT WORKS for one month, because it would probably kill them. So we get to bomb the house (then wipe down every surface and vacuum every freaking nook and cranny), spread diatamaceous earth all over the carpet, repeatedly vacuum, use peppermint oil in the flea baths, spray the cats and dog with flea spray, and get flea bites ourselves, FOR ONE FUCKING MONTH. I hate you so much. If hate were people, I’d be China.

Your useless, over-priced poison products only served to make one cat foam at the mouth, and the rest be re-infested within three days. Your claims that it lasts a month make me want to drive to your homes and leave flaming bags of poo on your lying liar porches.

Okay, I’m all caught up on chores, and really need to post this because I’ve been kind of a jerk for not acknowledging…I got Blog Awards from several very sweet people, and I’ve yet to say Thank You! Or follow any of the other rules…So I’m going to do that now.

Leave a comment on each of the blogs to let them know they have been nominated.

Thank you to Harvest Liberty, who gave me a Sunshine Award. (p.s.: Your site’s not working for me. Don’t know why!)

Those rules are:

Thank the blogger who nominated you

Answer the 10 questions on your favourite things below

Nominate 10 blogs to receive the Sunshine Award & let them know they have been nominated

Favourite animal:

Favourite number:

Favourite non-alcoholic drink:

FB or Twitter:

My passion:

Getting or giving:

Favourite pattern:

Favourite flower:

Favourite day of the week:

Favourite country:

And to Small Space, Big Harvest, thank you as well. I don’t know what you nominated me for, though, because your site’s not working for me, which makes me sad.

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I’m going to condense everything, and kind of mix and match, because SHEESH, that’s a lot of questions and linking and stuff!

The blogs. I’m going to turn y’all on to some blogs that you might not know about, but should (instead of following the rules).

Jenny the Bloggess: Hands down, the funniest blogger on the planet.Mimi Smartypants: Super funny, super smart, super Chicago.David Thorne: This guy is so funny it physically hurts to read him.Serenity Acres Now: My friends Trase and George, and their kick-ass farm outside Detroit.Green Bench Ramblings: Terrific photography, and little snippets of gardening life.Sara the Gardener: There’s something so compelling about reading of her garden antics while it’s winter for her (New Zealand) and high summer for me.Henge and Hollow Farm: (Another) Sara. Go be nice to her. She just lost a doeling.Green Box Garden: Hawaiian gardening (I used to live there, yo!), yes please!Stone House Road: She’s way more organized than me. I read her to get my ass in gear.The Bead Den: Super-cool crafts (and some weird ones). Different levels of difficulty. I can’t do half the stuff she does.Soulsby Farm: They’re just cool over there.

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Seven things about me:

I’ve had over 35 addresses in my life (Born in Charlotte NC, moved to Puerto Rico, then Orlando, then Chicago, Hilo, Honolulu, Kansas City MO, now Texas)

I can write with my toes.

I was on Romper Room as a kid. It was supposed to be for two weeks, but Miss Nancy kicked me off after one for back-talking. Miss Nancy was a bitch.

I graduated from high school as a junior when I was 16.

I’m extremely uncoordinated. I had over 60 stitches in my head by the time I was 6 (different incidents), and broke both wrists in 2010 (two separate incidents).

I love American classic cars, and will own one again someday (owned previously, 1967 Chevy II and a 1953 Buick Roadmaster).

I was once married to a rock musician. I don’t recommend it.

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That was exhausting. I’m going to look into this whole Blogger Award thing on Monday, and do some nominating myself! Thanks again, everybody! It made me feel special, and that rocks.

I am sorry to say it, but it’s true. I just went all ninja assassin on the grasshoppers and it felt awesome. I hate giving these jackholes money (Scott’s/Ortho), but I just sprayed the shit out of our lawn with Bug B Gone Max. We got two bottles. I’m going to reward myself for mopping the kitchen floor with a good spraying out by the pool. SUCK POISON, BITCHES! I did NOT spray it near our gardens. I’m going to go in and chase the grasshoppers out with flailing arms and a rake, and hope they get blasted in the poison part of the lawn. I’m also going to walk around my lawn smashing grasshopper corpses with my boots. Because that will make me happy.

In other news, here’s a picture of the latest harvest. The tomatoes are starting to wind down, so it’s time to start more seedlings in the (inside) greenhouse. We’re going to experiment with growing in our little outdoor greenhouse, because the heirloom varieties really struggle in the Texas sun. I HIGHLY RECOMMEND Arkansas Traveler and Stupice heirlooms, however. They’ve been thriving out there (the little toms in the picture are Arkansas Traveler) and both are super-sweet and delicious. I will grow them again in a heartbeat. The pears in the picture got blown off our pear tree during the high winds the other day, and as they were our ONLY pears, I’m a little sad.

PS: If you’ve not seen this blog, please go over and show this little Scottish girl some love. (Start at the beginning and read all the entries…It’s only a few pages long.) She does school food reviews, and yesterday, her town council tried to shut her down. The Internet went MONKEY SHIT and the council reversed its decision. HER BLOG IS COVERED IN WIN.

PSS: This bit with Jack McBrayer and Triumph almost made me pee myself laughing. True story.

Remember this post (Monsatan Lovers) I wrote in response to this dude, who had responded to this post (Sustainability vs. Monsatan) in a most Monsanto shillrific manner? (Yes, it’s a word. I just made it up.)